Find an Anchor
by QxzVIl
Summary: It's something that's stressed to Derek more than enough times; Find an anchor. Find something that keeps you grounded when the ground underneath your feet is unsteady. He never thought he would find one until one night he smells lemongrass and candy. Eventual, non-sexual Sterek (may change) build-up, Rating may change. Romance will probably be very brief, but that may change.
1. The First Night

The crying was what drew me out of my urge to hunt.

It was a full moon tonight, in January, and snow clung to the ground in thin patches, a pre-snow before the blankets that were to come. Anybody who was out here without any kind of jacket or outerwear would freeze to death. And I could smell the frostbite on someone.

I would even go so far as to say that the crying and the smell were together, combined with the sour and sharp smell of fear and the thick, cloying smell of mucus, so similar to blood. It was that knowledge that kept me sane.

The strangled cries of "mommy" and "where are you" and "I'm so cold" told me I was getting closer to the source. So when I finally broke through the thicket of trees to find said source, I stopped to see who it was; a small boy was huddled near a tree that had a small nook in it. He couldn't be much older than eight, and had his hair all buzzed off. His body was shivering from the exposure to the cold, and his sadness and fear was overpowering, even from here.

He seemed to sense something, because he looked up directly into my eyes, that same fear now intensified as he stood, pushing back against the tree. I wondered why he was so terrified of me until…

Right. I was fully wolfed out at this time. That comes with being an Alpha.

Not wanting to scare him anymore, I come down onto all fours, and _slowly_, move towards him. I keep my eyes down, away from him, and relax into a slow, coiled tension so common when needing to get ready for a kill in hunt. The boy is still shaking, watching me with those same eyes.

I stop, immediately, lying down, _trying_ to show I'm no threat. The smell thins, just barely, but it's still there. Using that slight hitch in smells, I inch forward again, eyes downcast once more. When I'm about five or six feet away, I steal a glance up at him; the tears I hadn't noticed before had stopped, and he was less against the tree.

_Slowly,_ I say to myself, remembering _everything_ that my mother had told me and all my siblings for several moons. By the time I'm a foot away from him, he has less of that fear, but the smell of caution has replaced that more. He removes one of his hands from his clutches, and stretches it, slowly, towards me, darting it back occasionally, before finally putting it out in front of my snout.

I take a step forward, enough so I can press against his hand, inhaling and cataloguing his scent like I'm so good at; under the fear, caution, mucus and tears, I can smell cinnamon, sweet grass, coffee, laundry detergent, cloves, and I'm assuming whatever candy he ingested from earlier that day. It's a smell that's so similar to home, but not, that it makes the fine hairs on the back of my mane stand up.

There was something about this boy that was different, that smelt…_right._

I move back a few inches, rearing back onto my hind legs, beginning to transform back to human. The fear is instantly back, and he's huddled against the tree once more. I feel the bones shift and break, crack back into place, until I'm no longer almost ten feet, but closer to six.

When I move to crouch in front of him, he stiffens, for a beat, before relaxing. His eyes are wide, glassy from unshed tears that never would; he didn't smell like them anymore.

I swallow, looking at him. "What's your name?" I ask, shifting in my crouch to be close to his height.

"S-Stiles. That's what e-every'-" He hiccups, and I hold back a chuckle. "They call me."

I nod, half a smile on my face. "I'm Derek. I wanted to let you know that I came to find you; your parents were, and still are, worried sick, so I thought I'd help find you."

Stiles eyes are wide, glassy once more. "Y-you'll take me to them?" He asks, and a few tears fall when I nod. Suddenly he shivers, hugging himself, teeth set to chatter. "I'm c-c-cold."

Really? I hadn't noticed myself.

"Well, I'm pretty warm myself. How about I carry you back and we'll get you a blanket when we get there?" He nods, and I can see his eyelids start to droop at the suggestion. I pick him up and start in the opposite direction, hearing him yawn. "you _are_ warm" is all he mutters before his eyes close. I emit a small laugh, continuing to walk.

I don't know why, but something _deep_ inside of me coiled in happiness. Something about holding this boy-Stiles, my mind supplies-in my arms.

* * *

A few minutes later, thanks to the faint smell of cinnamon, I come to a clearing of lights. Along with the scent from Stiles, which is now much stronger, I could smell my family, who all looked like perfect, curious civilians.

They can sense me well before everyone else, I'm aware of that. But they don't make notice of it, just let me slowly walk into the lights. I can smell the smell of distress on a woman not far off, the worry of a man close to her.

Stiles squirms at the bright light, eyes opening to see-

"Mommy!"

The woman turns around in the blink of an eye and I set Stiles down, letting him run off to her. The distress she smelled like was flooded with relief almost instantaneously, the smell of tears filling the air again. I exhale, noticing the man who was worried come up to her, before turning to look at me. He looks down, and back at my face, before turning away, embarrassed by something.

Yeah, that's right. I'm completely nude right now. Does anyone have a blanket.

Speak of the devil, someone came up behind me, wrapping a blanket around my form. Laura, I remind myself, her heady perfume filling my nose. She steps back behind the line, gesturing to in front of me.

I look back to the woman-Stiles's mom, I think-walking forward, holding a sleeping Stiles, face buried in his moms neck.

"Derek, right?" She asks, smiling when I nod. "Stiles told me about you finding him. Thank you. So, so much." She sets a hand on my bare shoulder, giving me another second or two of that smile, before excusing herself. The sheriff's hand replaced hers, and he walked me out of earshot.

Or so he thought.

"You know, I should question as to why you were out in the forest in the middle of a search, naked, with my son, who you just _happened_ to stumble upon after my men had been searching for a few hours." I swallow, realizing now that the sheriff-Stiles' Dad- can be a truly scary man to be on the wrong side of. But his features soften after a minute, most noticeably around the eyes. "But, you found my son, after all this time. And you saved the missus from a sleepless night, and me without having to even _think_ about having the possibility of not finding him. So, thank you. Truly."

I shrug, offering him a turn of the mouth for a second. "No problem." The sheriff looks at me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, like he's _dying_ to ask something.

"Why exactly_ are_ you naked, son?"

Right. Voyeurism isn't big around here, I guess.

"I was cold?" I offer weakly. That seems to be enough, because a warm grin slowly creeps, like he's trying hard not to laugh.

"Well, at least wear something to cover up; don't want to give anybody a scare _too bad_." He removes the hand, putting it out to shake my hand in a firm shake. "You have a good night."

I nod. "Yes, sir."

He laughs, mutters _still not going to get used to that_ under his breath. I exhale, taking a whiff of my families scent to ground me. After the Sheriffs' cruiser disappears, and most of the other cars have as well, my family closes in on me.

Mom gets there first, and takes a look at me, eyes both stern and warm. "Mind telling me what tonight was about?" She asked, holding my face still.

I swallow. "I think I finally found an anchor."


	2. Ten Years Later

Ten years and a switch of coasts later, I see Stiles again.

It was hard, over the years being so distant from him, unable to smell the faint traces of him around the elementary school across from my school, or how the candy aisle _always_ had that faint smell; like he touched everything with his tiny hands before finally deciding on one. Or, when it would get really bad, would need to stand near enough to his house to get a stronger smell.

It was hard, but tolerable. Like that itch you can't scratch that's _just_ on the other side of annoying. It would all be for nothing if it wasn't for _one person._

Kate.

She knew there was something different about me and my family, and she wanted to find out at any rate, if the slight twinge of arousal underneath everything else was enough. But it wasn't like any of the other girls' in my grade; this was clearly all wrong, not genuine at all, and forced for her benefit.

She was working as a cashier at the local supermarket, and we were there at least once a week, which was where it would start; the no longer sporadic glances at me, the lingering gazes on me, her hand that would hold for _just_ long enough to not be accidental.

The warm, empty smiles, though, were the worst. The smiles that made me want to crawl out of my skin and die in a hollow grave.

Sure, she was beautiful, attractive too. But… she just wasn't _right._ She smelled wrong; made me too lightheaded, foggy, with too much perfume… it was all a ruse, obviously, trying to draw out what I was. But I just ignored it, pretending like it wasn't anything.

"It's Derek… right?" She asks me when I was on my own, picking up the extra gallon of milk we missed from our earlier shopping trip. I nodded a terse nod to her, not giving her anything else. She laughed, head thrown back, and her neck was exposed; her _odor_ came towards me, and I barely suppressed a grimace. "You're cute." She hands me my change, hand lingering _yet again_ before I'm shoving it in my pocket. "Have a _nice day._" I nod once more, leaving without a backwards glance

I don't get sick until I get home, barely reaching the flowerbeds, tossing the milk to the side and retching up whatever I had for lunch earlier. When my stomach calms down, I lean back, bringing my right hand, the one she touched, to my nose.

It doesn't smell like lemongrass anymore from when the Stilinski's invited me for dinner; instead it smells like her. And I hated her for it.

The next time I see her alone, that same empty smile is there. I bite the bullet and make small talk, shooting her down _politely_ whenever she asks me something too personal. When I ask for her last name, she smiles.

"Well, your little friend might know my niece. What's he go by? Stiles, or something?"

I _really_ hope I didn't pale exactly as much as I thought I did.

She didn't seem to notice, continuing on. "It's Argent. You know, silver in French?" she waves a hand. "Not like they offer French at Beacon Hills, right?" Same empty smile. I needed to leave. Now.

"Well, thanks." I say, forcing a smile before leaving.

She knew about Stiles. Knew about my high school. And her last name was Argent.

Which could only mean one thing.

I burst through my father's study, seeing my mother turn to me, sensing my worry. She didn't get to talk before I said "She's an Argent." Mom's face looks confused.

"Who, sweetie?"

"The cashier at the grocery store." I catch my breath, watching her face go from confusion, to realization, to pale. She stands, making her way to the desk, pacing behind it, before sitting down and picking up the phone.

"We're lucky that you only started school on Monday." She pauses, taking in my furrowed brows. "Now this'll look normal when we leave." She turns away, answering the phone when someone answers.

After we moved to New York, I graduated from high school _and_ college, I drove down the east coast, before deciding to come back to Beacon Hills.

* * *

The town wasn't as sleepy as it was before; I knew that was probably going to happen in a few years' time, even before it happened. Sure, most of the buildings that were around ten years ago have been replaced by newer, more current establishments, ones that people might actually frequent, instead of just giving it the once over.

The windows of the Camaro where down, and I caught that familiar smell driving past one road. Instead of taking the required right, I turned left towards it.

I park, smelling the scent as I go in to park. It's headier, stronger, _muskier_, like he seemed to _finally_ come into his own scent; something subtle, but energetic. Like a lemon without all the acid; a raspberry that's not so tart; like bark on a tree, but supercharged.

I still don't know why his scent is strongest outside of an Arby's, even though it's probably because he frequents here a lot.

He probably likes the curly fries about the best, if I'm taking a wild guess.

I swallow and walk inside, inhaling the scent that's even _more_ potent than before. I glance over to where he's sitting, along with six or seven other people, intermingling, but still strong. The scent is welcoming, wrapping around me in some sort of warmth.

It sets an ache in my chest, and emptiness in my gut. I sigh and go to order whatever looks halfway appetizing.

Throughout the entire process from me ordering, to ignoring the way the cashier smacks her gum _obnoxiously_, to when I sit down, I can hear all of them behind me.

"_isn't that Derek Hale?_" one says, who sounds masculine. The _slight_ feminine lilt is enough to stand out.

"_He's kind of hot."_ This one sounds like the blonde one, though that may just be because of first glance.

"_Yeah, right. You just like the asshole variety, Lydia._" This one sounds kind of douche-y. Might be the spikey headed one.

"_Well, at least I know where I found _you._" _Yep, that's probably the red-head; she smells like the other guy.

"_There's nothing wrong with the guy. He's probably just getting a bite to eat maybe._" This voice was deep, booming, like dark chocolate and dark things.

"_Yeah, probably on his way to burn another house down._" This one sounded cold, clipped, professional. Like I was a bug that had the audacity to get stuck to the underside of her shoe. "_My Aunt told me what he did before he disappeared all those years ago, burning down his own families house. I mean, he must have some serious moxie to come back here."_

Wait, what?

"Sir?" The cashier asks, giving me a questioning look.

"uh, right, sorry…" I clear my throat, pulling my card out.

"_That wasn't Derek, Allison. In case you've _forgotten._" _I exhale, that familiar voice easing out tension from my shoulders I didn't know was there. It made me relax. "_That happened _well_ after he left here._" His tone was annoyed, a notch just below pissed off. I wanted nothing more than to rub a hand along his neck, calming him down.

"_I don't know what your fascination with him is, Stiles._ _I'd almost say you have a little _crush_ on him."_ It sounds like the redhead talking again.

"_Don't you guys remember? He's the one who helped me find my mom all those years ago._" I barely hid my smile as I walked to my table, the slight smugness radiating off me.

I almost puffed my chest out too. That would have been embarrassing.

"_And that's great, Stiles, but… he's kind of creepy looking._" The feminine lilt is back, and I scoff, drumming my fingers on the table.

"_Wait, where are you going? Don't go talk to him!_" I could hear his heartbeat come closer, the loudest noise of that whole conversation, which was nothing but a few hushed whispers and a lot of accusatory tones. And here they were, thinking they were quiet. I almost snort.

"uh, h-hey… Derek?"

I turn my head, looking at Stiles, keeping my face as collected as possible with how much his scent is hitting me in the face.

"I don't know if you r-remember me or not, but-"

I nod. "Stiles." His face lights up a bit. "You've grown quite a bit from when I was here last…"

He laughs, a bit nervously. "Uh, yeah. Time kind of does that to you, I guess." He scratches the back of his head, shifting foot to foot.

I gesture to the other seat. "Feel free to sit if you want."

Stiles debates it for a second, before sliding in across to me, offering a smile. I swallow thickly, ignoring that fluttering feeling in my gut.

"Oh!" he says, slapping a hand on the table. "Friends, right. Where are my manners?" He nods his head over to the other table, ticking a finger for each person, gesturing to each one in turn. "There's Scott." Feminine lilt. Floppy hair. Weirdly shaped jaw.

"Allison." Cold and Clipped. Long brown locks with highlights. Bears a striking resemblance to…

No. Don't even _think_ about that woman.

"Lydia and Jackson." Red head and douche spike. They seem like a perfect couple.

"Finally, Erica and Boyd." A blonde haired girl I don't recognize from earlier, and the dark chocolate voice. They all seem like nice people, but… not to me. "It's kind of a motley crew, honestly, but once you know who everyone is and place their faces correctly, it's smooth sailing." He waves his hand in the air, a trail of his scent waving in my face.

I want to lick my lips. But I don't. Barely.

Just then, the cashier comes by dropping the tray of food on the table. She takes one look at Stiles, and her face _falls._ I have a "what are you gonna do?" expression on my face, and she scurries off back to the kitchen.

Wait… who says _scurries_ nowadays? That's an interesting word choice.

Stiles looks close to laughing, eyes on my curly fries. Yep, that's another correct guess for me. "Help yourself" is all I say while assessing whatever I put myself into.

He cocks an eyebrow. "You do realize that giving me full reign of your fries means you'll never _get any. _Ever."

I shrug, grabbing something off my tray. "I don't even really like fast food to begin with; Arby's isn't an exception."

Stiles is shocked. I completely expected that. "That's Sacrilege, you poor, poor man. I feel so bad for you; like I feel the duty to _have_ to stuff you full of fast food." He says the last little bit with fries stuffed in his mouth.

"Stiles." The lilt-y one-Scott, I remember-appears next to our table, looking at me nervously, and at Stiles like he's about to die.

"Yeah?" he chews, thoughtfully, swallowing. I glance at the movement his throat makes.

"I need a ride home. Preferably _now?_" he shifts, not even daring a look at me.

Stiles shrugs, standing up. "Whatever, man." He goes to walk away, then stops, turning my way again. "Hey, uh… I'm graduating next week. Maybe you might want to come? My, uh… family! Yes, my family might enjoy seeing you again. Consider it, maybe?" He squeaks when I hold up a hand, halting him.

"I'll think about it. Thanks for the offer."

His smile is fond. "Sure thing." He turns away then. I wait until everyone leaves and their cars are gone to get up, throwing everything away, not even missing it.

* * *

It's too much to handle.

The smell of charred wood. The resonating smoke smell. The smell of overall death.

There is nothing left of the house, except for most of the first level, a few pieces of the second level, and a few planks of the third. All the wood is either a dark brown, or a charred, charcoal black. The scent still clings to the boards, like it didn't happen _too long_ ago. But it still happened.

And it was still awful.

But underneath all of it-the smell of charred wood, of house fire, the smell of grass in the air, is that sweet, cloying, overbearingly strong odor of her; so much so, that Stiles is, yet again, forced out of my nose to be replaced by _her_.

It reeks of her, the entire burned up husk of the house, which said enough to me.

I howled then, a broken, damaged sound full of nothing but anguish. The birds around took off at the sound, and any sense of wildlife in the immediate area disappeared, running farther away from the sound.


	3. One Week Later

I knew that it was a stupid decision to come back to Beacon Hills. I could pretty much hear my mother's disapproving tone, telling me "this was a bad decision, Derek." And now I could happily go back to her and let her say to me "I told you so." Because it was true.

I mean, she may have shot me with wolfsbane, but it wasn't a lethal dosage; just enough to make the wounds sting annoyingly, and make the healing process stop altogether. And then there was, once again, the fact that she's blocked out his scent _once again_. That didn't make me too happy either.

"I'm really getting tired of this, _Derek._" She calls somewhere off to my left, but farther back. I'm hiding behind a tree, wounds leaking black blood. I'm sweaty from running for two hours in a preserve of sorts, and incredibly tired. It was enough for me to try to control the shift and not pant like I've run a marathon. "Although this shouldn't have lasted as long as it has, you won't be alive for much longer anyways, so I guess it doesn't matter."

"Kate," one of her lackeys says, and I imagine him putting a hand on her shoulder. "Relax. Jim got you the bullets in the brown box, and you don't have anything to worry about."

She laughs; a cold, heartless, sickening sound. "That's true. It should have spread by now anyways."

"Uh… actually-" the voice I assume is Jim speaks up. "B-brown box?" He says.

Idiot.

"Which _bullets_ did you get me, Jim? The brown or black box?" Kate steps up near him, heartbeat elevated. She smells aggravated, and annoyed. And murderous.

"I think I grabbed the black box accidentally? I thought that's what you said in the first place."

The sound of flesh hitting flesh sounds. "Well thanks to you, he's going to heal from this instead of dying from it." She exhales, like she's trying to calm herself. "But, that's alright. I forgive you." Then the sound of a blade being unsheathed comes out, and the gurgling sound of choking follows suit.

Then the sharp, metallic tang of blood fills the air, thick and overpowering every other scent there is.

"Oh, Derek," Kate says, sounding disappointed. "Why did you do this to Jim?" The sound of metal on cloth then, obviously she's wiping the blood on a napkin or something. "He didn't have anything against you, and you just killed him. How is _that_ going to look to the Sheriff and his son? The man who saved his son suddenly killing an innocent man?." The gurgling continued for about a minute, but eventually stopped.

"It's funny," I say, shifting my weight to get ready to run. "How you think you're an actual hunter. I've seen hunters before, how they work, how they function, and you don't hold a candle to them." I swallow. "You're not a hunter. You're just a scared little girl with a knife." I take off running after that, werewolf speed and cross-country from high school working for me. I felt the sting of a few bullets graze me, but none entered my body.

"Andrew! Get the ATV _now!"_ I broke through the denser part of the forest as they headed back to their vehicles, the sound of them starting up a second later. But I wasn't focused on that; I was focused on what was going on in front of me.

The forest was a mass of different trees and bushes, different scents and textures, all merging together into one, big, harmonious cluster. It was clear there were paths worn over the years by hikers and various animals, but I disregarded them; instead focusing on putting as much distance between me and the next bullet fired.

The preserve was a maze of trees; going through one gap in a thicket of trees, would just lead to a thicker part of the area. Bushes with various berries and herbs and ferns made it difficult to get a good read on a path.

I knew there had to be a river running around here, which soon turned into a small waterfall and pond. But who knew where that was, when all I could smell was blood and wolfsbane and _her._

Another shot gets let off; ricocheting off of the tree I was just in front of a second ago. I risk a look back, seeing the lights closer for comfort than I would like. I push harder, narrowly avoiding hitting a tree. I knew that Kate wouldn't kill me, but she would torture me for hours, a mere plaything to her, pumping enough wolfsbane in me to inhibit healing for months.

I had to make sure that wouldn't happen.

Suddenly there was a break in the forest, and the sounds of a waterfall are closer, louder than it was behind the wall of trees. I look back, noticing at how narrow the space is between the trees, leaving no room for a vehicle. It was a small victory.

Until an arrow became lodged inside of my shoulder.

After that I was running, the arrowhead digging painfully into my shoulder. The almost wall of trees muffled sounds better than I expected, and I could hear a waterfall louder now. Behind me, the ATV was driving away, probably looking for a big enough break in the trees to maneuver the monstrosity of a vehicle through the preserve. If she was smart like an actual hunter then she would have gone on foot through the crack.

Too bad she's not a true hunter. Just a scared little girl with a gun.

A smirk finds my face for a moment at how sloppy she's grown with her age, but it falters when the engine starts coming closer.

Soon enough I come to the waterfall. It's not a large one, maybe twenty or so feet. The pond is shallow, and will definitely hurt when I make impact, but it's that or the other alternative.

And I wasn't going to take that door, thank you.

The engine coming exceptionally close spurs me to make the jump, making my body into as much of a point as possible to minimize the amount of pain I would endure upon impact.

Still hurt when I made impact though.

I knew that getting right out of the water immediately would be a bad move, so I swim a little closer to the waterfall, the white foam that would appear after striking the surface of the pond providing a decent cover from human eyes.

Still, even with the rushing water above me, I can still hear them talk. Or, it was more of a shout I suppose.

"Forget him, Kate. He's not going to be of much use to anybody for a while. Just

"I don't care!" It might have sounded like she smacked him, but that was only a guess on my part, my brain filling in spaces. "He's still alive, and he's not giving us what we want. And until that happens, he's still of use to anybody."

There's a pause. "I know it's difficult to let pray go, and it is for me too. But, for now, it's late, and we can't do much more. Let's go home, regroup, and we'll find a new plan tomorrow. And then we can try to cover Jim's death as an animal attack."

There was a groan, but then the sound of footsteps faded, then an engine revving away into the night.

I break the surface of the water, gasping for air, clawing my way out of the pond. It might have been July, but it was in the sixties tonight, which wasn't a good temperature to be swimming in. I needed some place warm, and safe; un-hostile. A place that I could rest and heal my wounds for the night.

* * *

I was hurting. I was aching. I was tired. And I needed a safe place to heal.

And I had just the thought.

Using only my sense of smell, I followed that familiar smell until it was overwhelmingly good. The wolf inside whined when it broke through to see the familiar house. The living room light was on, and Matthew was on the phone, Andrea reading a book on the couch. Directly above that was another light,

I made my way near the window, pretty sure I could make the jump unhindered. But as I was now, I didn't want to take a chance of missing entirely, and decided to make the slow decent up the tree nearby.

I couldn't knock because I was so weak, so I kind of just…

_Slammed_ a bloody hand onto the window, making Stiles jump on the bed.

"Oh my god, _Derek?!_" He whisper-yelled, getting to the window and throwing it open. I go to take a step, but instead it turns into me falling and hitting the ground. "Is, is that blood? Oh my god, I think it is. Why are you bloody, why does it look like-" he cuts off from his panicking, looking up towards the door. "Oh my god, dad. Okay, you," he points to me. "Stay there. Don't, like, move or anything. Oh god, you're bloody."

I smile, wincing as I tried to move, feeling the bullet in my rib rub against one of them. I listen in on the two Stilinskis talk in the hallway.

"I heard a noise. Is something going on up there?" The authoritative father voice is cranked up to eleven at that sentence, and the sheriff position doesn't make it any less threatening.

"Nope!" Stiles says, _squeaks_ being a better word. "I just, uh… saw a spider."

If silences could raise eyebrows, this one would have. "Then what was the thumping sound?"

"Well I was about to smash it, but then it jumped off the wall, and I threw myself out of the way."

It seemed Matthew wanted to say something else, but didn't to push it. "Right. Well, I gotta head out to meet some people at a preserve; someone's turned up dead out in the preserve." Yeah, a complete psycho did that.

"Wait, someone's been murdered? Like, cold blood, full on, throat slashed out, _murder?_" His excitement and curiosity cloaks his previous emotions.

"Yes. And there will be no sneaking out tonight, or you'll be grounded."

"But _dad,_ I leave for college in two weeks." Stiles whine-groans.

"Grounded for _two weeks,_ my mistake. No sneaking out." He says firmly. I chuckle quietly to myself.

"Fine, fine, whatever. Not like I wanted to see a dead body anyways."

"Good. Oh, by the way, your mother's going to get ice cream. Wants to know if you want anything."

"No raspberry!" he cries, obviously frustrated. "Or, raisins. Or nuts. Or _figs._ My god, how does she even _like_ that stuff?"

The sheriff chuckles. "I'll relay the message. I should be back after you fall asleep, so I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, good night Dad." He opens the door a second later, exhaling, before standing up straighter. He peeks over the bed, poking my face. "Hey, Derek. Please don't be dead. You're not dead, right? Grunt, or _something._"

I did. He exhaled. I huffed a laugh.

"Oh, shut up; it would scare you too if you had a dead guy laying there on the ground."

"I know the feeling" I lie, hearing him splutter above me.

"You've been around _dead people?!_" He shrieks, looking horrified.

"That was a _joke_, Stiles. I tell them from time to time, as unbelievable as it may seem." I groan at the bullet moving in my side.

"Okay, you're obviously in a _lot_ of pain. So just, tell me what I can do to help? Hello, Derek?!" He slaps my face, making me jump. "Sorry, I just, don't want anyone _else_ having the possibility of dying. First my mom, and now you, it's just…" He laughs a watery laugh, but regains composure. I move my head so I'm looking at him, his eyes full of worry.

"Your mom's sick?" I ask.

"Yeah, she's got cancer. But it's not, like, fatal or anything; she's fighting through it. Doctors even say she'll make a full recovery after her surgery next month." He coughs, looking down at me. "What am I doing? Tell me what you need, Derek!" He's panicked, so I sit up, wincing.

"Get me a knife with a sharp end, a plastic bag, and a washcloth."

"Got it! Wait, why the knife?" He asks, and I smile.

"How am I going to get the bullets out, Stiles?" I could have used a claw, sure, but then he would question how I got the bullets out.

And I wasn't ready _quite yet_ to tell him about that part of my life.

"You're _shot? _Oh god, forget the knife; we need to get you to the hospital." Then I gave him a glare, which was still _in my power_ and he shriveled a bit. "Or I can get you that knife. Let's get you that knife, like, right now." He makes a hasty exit, and I make a shaky attempt at standing.

I'm struggling to stay upright. The evidence is clear on Stiles face when he comes back, knife and plastic back in tow. "Whoa, dude, you need some help." He set the stuff in the bathroom and came back, wrapping my arm over his shoulder. The warmness of his hand on my shoulder was a pleasant feeling, and I could feel my wolf pant happily inside of me.

"God, you're _heavy_. I mean, I assumed you would be, but still." He heaves me one more time, before getting to the bathroom and setting me down heavily on the side of the bathtub. "Okay. _Okay._ Are you good? Should I stand by in case you get woozy? Do you want me to hold your hand?" He pauses, thinking about it. "Yeah, scratch that. I'll just be, Y'know… _outside._" He grimaces and walks out, closing the door behind him.

I chuckle and lock the door, making sure he won't bust in at the worst possible time.

I move to stand in front of the mirror, peeling my shirt in the process. The shirt sticks because the black blood has dried, and it's a little painful, but it's manageable. The actual skin around the wound is a purple-y-black-red color and was raised around the bullet, but hopefully it would start to go down after

I took the knife, putting it to the wound in my arm, and well… shit, that hurts like hell.

Each bullet that gets cut out elicits a loud groan of displeasure, each one making Stiles' heartbeat outside pick up a little bit. Around the third bullet, he starts pacing, and when I dig the _especially painful_ one out of my thigh, he starts pounding on the door. "

"There's a lot of blood. I doubt you want to see this."

The pounding stops. "Right. That's absolutely right; I do _not_ want to see that." He moves away from the door, slumping against the wall.

I smirk. "There's actually a really _shallow_ one on my ass; I might need help with that."

"Seriously?!" It wasn't excited; it was of mock disbelief and shock, and just barely under everything, there was fondness.

"Oh yeah, totally. But I got it." That was a lie; there was no bullet lodged there. I'd have her _own_ hide if that happened. After the bullets were pulled out, I swiped a bit of antiseptic on the cuts and, for good measure, put Band-Aids on them, even though the wounds would most likely heal completely overnight.

I wipe down whatever mess I made in the bathroom, throwing my shirt and pants back on, and exit the bathroom. Stiles heartbeat is slow, and I'm curious to see what the cause is. All it really is, is he passed out asleep against the wall.

Damn, that's cute.

I bend over him, picking him up with little effort, moving over to his bed. He mumbles something unintelligent into my chest, wrapping an arm around my neck, snuggling in closer. My heart seizes at the feeling, but I keep walking, eventually setting him down on his bed.

* * *

Its early morning when I wake up, the clock saying that it's a little after six. I do a quick check of my body; all the bullet holes have healed up, with no mark left behind. But I realize it's not just the wound; I haven't felt this well rested in years. I think that was something else my mother said about an anchor; that your anchor will lend their strength and energy indirectly to you, allowing your body to heal and replenish energy that's been lost.

I stand, quietly, to not disturb Stiles. I move over to the window and slide it open slowly, stopping last minute to see the stack of sticky notes on his desk. I go over and write "thanks" on one, sticking it to the window before leaping out of it.


End file.
